Three Conversations About One Thing
by TrinityWildcat
Summary: Two years after the events of Perfect Day, Bobby Goren visits an old friend to discuss what happened between him and Sienna Tovitz. Little does he suspect what the future has in store for him.
1. Wake Me Up When Summer Ends

"_Like my father's come to pass,_

_Seven years has gone so fast,_

_Wake me up when September ends._

_Here comes the rain again, falling from the stars,_

_Drenched in my pain again, becoming who we are._

_As my memory rests, it never forgets what I lost,_

_Wake me up, when September ends." _

Green Day, "Wake Me Up When September Ends".

New York, summer 2005

Dr Fritz Hoffman sighed, and looked across at his friend. The question, he thought, was whether Robert would notice if he judiciously allowed a little spring water to fall into the whiskey they were both drinking. Specifically, into the whiskey _Robert_ was drinking. This would be his third of the evening in Hoffman's apartment, and he guessed that the big man had had at least one other drink before coming here. He was now slumped in an armchair, slacks and shirt loose and rumpled, watching the world go past outside the window, several floors below. The summer evening was fading, light turning from gold to dim, and people were hurrying home. So far, the summer of 2005 had been a good one for him – he had published another book – but, apparently, not for his friend.

He sighed again. _The man has a nose like a bloodhound, even drunk_, he remembered, shrugged, and poured another neat drink, passing it across. Some men would consider it a nuisance, having a friend show up unexpectedly on a Saturday evening to drink their whiskey and stare morosely out of the window.

Hoffman, however, considered it a compliment that Robert had evidently decided that he trusted him enough to go to his apartment to get drunk, rather than hanging around in a bar somewhere. He knew only too well how assiduously the other man guarded his privacy, and this letting of his guard down in company indicated a rare trust, he thought. Also a strong sense of self-preservation; for a member of New York's Major Case Squad, getting drunk alone in the city was not a good idea.

Pausing before walking across to hand his friend the drink, he sipped his own whiskey, and mused wryly that he would have to consider to a little scientific nosiness about what the man might let slip with his guard down. He wondered to himself whether he should try to avoid giving in to his curiosity, but he felt in this case, he had a good motive for it. He was seeing less and less of Robert Goren, now… not that they had ever spent much time together, but both appreciated the chance to speak to another intelligent person in German; Hoffman's mother tongue, and Goren's best language apart from English. They were both that rare type of person who can form genuine friendships across a generation gap. That, and Goren's visits sometimes preceded some interesting translation work coming his way. Hoffman had been retired from his work as a pathologist for some years now, but working as an NYPD translator was an enjoyable element of his retirement.

Now, though, he rarely saw Goren, and when he did, his friend seemed increasingly tired and worn. Police work could do that to a person, as he had seen happen many a time.

He would have to admit that he was, frankly, worried about Robert. He sighed. There was no way he could broach the topic without intruding on the other man's privacy, but given the time of year, he could hazard a guess at what was preying on the big detective's mind.

"You seem thoughtful, Doc." Goren's deep voice was low, very slightly slurred, but he seemed to still be in reasonable command of his faculties.

"Yes." Hoffman pondered his reply for a second, then mentally took a deep breath and went on. "I don't like this time of year."

"Too hot?"

_He sounds so… bored. As if after years and years of getting into other people's heads has finally surpassed even _his_ capacity to find other people interesting_.

"No." Hoffman turned away and stared out of the window. He almost never spoke of what he was about to mention, and it was not easy to do so. "It was around this time of year that I last spoke to my father."

Goren's head had dropped. He didn't look up. Indeed, Hoffman thought, he seemed frozen in the chair. "I think I mentioned to you before, my mother took me to England when I was very young… she and my father… they didn't agree about what was happening in Germany at the time, what it would mean for us. I still wonder how she managed it… a young woman and a child, travelling alone, to a country where she didn't speak the language. We arrived there only to find that my mother's brother had died whilst we were travelling, so we had nowhere to stay… we eventually managed to find someone who would take us in, but it was incredibly hard, I didn't speak English either." He abruptly found that he could not say any more.

"So you spoke to your father by telephone?" Goren's voice was unexpectedly gentle, compassionate, understanding. Hoffman recognised it as a tool of his trade, but appreciated the emotion, which was genuine.

He smiled sadly. "Yes. Once. I was about seven, and I think I said 'I hate it here and it's all your fault!'. I never spoke to him again. Not long after that…"

"The war broke out?"

"No. It was before that… _Kristallnacht_…my mother was interned as an enemy alien the year after…" He could not say any more. Even to a trusted friend, the memory was too old, and too painful. He strove for rationality. "I have been trying to write about this, but I don't think I ever will succeed."

"So don't write about it."

Goren's voice was flat, heavy, almost brutal. He was rolling the glass between his long fingers, and staring heavily at the ground. "There's no reason why you should lay out your pain for everyone to gawp at." He turned his head, staring out of the window again.

Hoffman wondered if he should reply, but before he could speak, Robert continued. "I hate this time of year too. It was around this time my father left us."

He turned to Hoffman with a bitter, mirthless smile. "I didn't find out until two weeks after he left that he'd never be coming back. That was when Mom stopped pretending that he'd just gone away on business."

He abruptly fell silent, and for a heart-stopping second, Hoffman suspected his friend was about to cry. _It would do him good_.. but Robert was still speaking, voice a little hoarse, raw, so quiet he had to strain to make out the words.

"We got some sympathy at first. Guess it was easier then… we were cute kids, my brother and I. Then it was all "be the man of the family"." He chuckled hollowly. "It got worse as I got older. Everyone thinks kids are resilient. Truth is, you need your parents more as you get older…How did _you_ cope?"

Hoffman sighed. Perhaps Robert had not meant to say that aloud, and to judge by the man's face, he was wishing he hadn't, but it was the opportunity he'd been waiting for.

"I suppose I coped by building my own life. By promising myself that I would do good with my life. That I would be a good father myself, that my children would not suffer because of the past."

Goren's face darkened, the muscles along his jaw setting. Hoffman read the unspoken accusation, _how dare you answer me like that? how dare you rub it in?_

"Well, I guess you managed that. Reputed scientist, loyal husband, loving father…" Goren's voice was bitter, angry, even – Hoffman winced at the thought – petulant. Resentful. He would have taken offence, but there was no point. It was the whiskey talking, and he knew from long experience that in the morning they would both pretend those words have never been said.

"Yes, I was. I am."

"Guess that worked out well for you."

"Yes. It did."

Goren replied, in tones of self-loathing so deep it was painful to hear, "Wouldn't work for me. I would make a lousy husband, and a worse father."

"You don't mean that." He kept his tone neutral and politely interested, sensing that any attempt to offer compassion would result in Goren angrily turning on him. His friend had had to be strong for so long, Hoffman thought sadly, that he tended to interpret any attempt at offering understanding or sympathy as an imputation that he was weak, that the person offering it pitied him. Not for the first time, he wondered how _she_ had managed it.

"If that's not true, then why did she leave?" Goren's voice nearly broke, and in a raw near-whisper, he repeated hopelessly, "_Why did she leave me_?"

It was around this time of year, Hoffman knew, and had known all along, that Bobby's ex-lover, Sienna Tovitz, had left him. Alex Eames had told him in subdued tones on a visit to his apartment to pick up a translation he'd done for the Major Case Squad, about a month after it had happened, and he had been saddened, but in many ways, not surprised.

Goren might seem outwardly charming, but his life experiences had taught him to seal off his inner feelings and thoughts behind an impenetrable wall. Difficult for any woman to get beyond that, especially one who was so much younger. Nevertheless, he had dared to hope that perhaps this might be different. She was, to the best of his knowledge, the only woman his friend had ever lived with. This was the first time he'd ever spoken of it to Hoffman, and the older man suspected that he had never really come to terms with what must have seemed like the latest in a long line of personal betrayals and disappointments.

"I'm being dumb, anyway," Goren continued in a self-deprecating, hollow voice. "I couldn't ever offer her that. I guess that was why she left." The words were said lightly, but Hoffman could hear the truth in them, and winced at the pain his friend was hardly concealing. Nevertheless… a tiny glimmer of light appeared as he processed what Goren had just said.

"You don't _know_ why she left?"

"Better career opportunity." He shrugged, as if to say, _that's how it goes_, but one of his shoulders quivered slightly. Hoffman decided that the situation was grave enough to justify throwing caution to the wind, and plowed forwards.

"Robert Goren, you are one of the most intelligent men I have ever met, but it pains me to tell you now that that is one of the most stupid things I have ever heard anyone say."

"I'm sorry?" Goren's face had shifted from pained to pole axed. Hoffman continued, before he could lose the initiative.

"You were living with this woman. You asked her to move in with you, and she accepted. And yet you are telling me that you don't know why she left."

"I told you. Better career opportunity. She told me one day that she'd applied for a job in London and they'd offered it to her. Three weeks later she was gone. It was the best thing for her."

"Ridiculous! Even in this day and age, a woman does not move in with a man, share his bed and his house for nearly half a year, and then suddenly leave without once looking back, career opportunity or no career opportunity."

"That was what she said."

"You didn't ask her? Didn't tell her you wanted her to stay?" He was pushing hard here, but sensed that a more gentle approach would fail to get through.

"I had to let her go, all right?" Goren stood up suddenly, towering over Hoffman, who was briefly unnerved as he confronted six feet of drunk, angry detective. Suddenly, his shoulders slumped, and he muttered to himself: "I had to let her go. It was the only right thing to do."

"Do you know how arrogant you sound, Robert?" Hoffman tipped his head on one side and managed to meet Goren's angry glower with equanimity. "'You had to let her go.' 'It was the best thing for her'. Didn't _she_ get a say in any of this?"

"She _applied for a job in London_. That was pretty obvious."

Goren's voice was sarcastic; he ignored it, asking, "Was it a permanent job?"

"Well… no. It was a one-year contract. She renewed it when it ended… stayed in London." _Thank goodness for the fact that not only has he a brilliant memory, he can't resist showing it off_, Hoffman observed dryly to himself, and continued.

"Did she offer to come visit at weekends? Return after the contract ended?"

"No."

"Did you give her the chance? Did you ask her to?"

"_Why do you care_?"

Hoffman sensed he had pushed as far as he could, and said gently: "Because I am your friend, Robert, and it pains me to see you like this. I can't help but wonder whether, if the two of you spoke again, you might find that there were things left unspoken that, said aloud, might perhaps open up new opportunities."

He did not miss the very brief flare of hope in his friend's eyes… then watched sadly as it died.

"I can't. She'll have someone else now… I just can't." He said, as if it were a mantra he'd repeated many times, "It was the best possible ending for both of us."

Before Hoffman could comment, a woman's voice called down from the upstairs floor of their apartment, "Fritz, you told me to tell you to go to bed if it got this late and you weren't up. We've got that young man from Las Vegas visiting tomorrow."

Both men stared at each other, then Goren asked "You're having a visitor?"

"A young pathologist from Las Vegas, here to visit the Crime Lab… I offered to give him a bed for the night."

"Speaking of bed…" Goren stretched, catlike, and gathered his jacket. "I should be going. Sorry, I've not been good company tonight. Should have listened more." He looked rueful, and Hoffman smiled, as if to say _no offence taken_.

"You are always welcome here, Robert, you and your partner – Alex is welcome to drop by any time too, you both are. Here, let me call you a cab."

"Thanks. By the way, I always meant to ask…" Goren suddenly looked sheepish "Did you _have_ to do that translation for her?"

Hoffman started to ask _What translation?_, then grinned at the memory of how Goren had managed to leave a heated written conversation in German between himself and Sienna Tovitz lying around. Unfortunately, Alex Eames had mistaken it for some papers Goren himself had been going to translate for a colleague and taken it to him to spare her partner the time…

"I didn't _have_ to, Robert, but it was fun." He grinned. "Besides, you should know better than to leave things like that lying around."

They smiled at each other, as if to say, _No hard feelings after tonight's discussion_. Hoffman called the cab, and it was a measure of how tired (and drunk) Goren was that he didn't protest, he thought fifteen minutes later, as he showed his friend out of the apartment, watching unobtrusively to see that he actually got in the cab. As he took the elevator back up to his apartment, he found himself reflecting on the night's conversation and shrugging hopelessly. What could he do?

As the last rays of the sun faded, and he tidied away the glasses, he reflected on the evening, and sighed, glancing towards the stairs in the apartment with a tired smile. (The original owner had created a two-floor apartment at the top of the building, which Hoffman had bought when he and his wife wanted a smaller home). His wife was waiting for him upstairs, and even after over forty years together, the thought still excited him.

It was not something either of them had expected, but the discovery that passion did not have to fade along with their youth had been a deep and abiding joy for both of them. Even after a long marriage, several jobs and new homes, their children and one period when they had lived apart for a short time, their bond was still strong, and she was as infinitely interesting and fascinating to him as she had been when he had rescued her from the unwanted attentions of a boorish fellow student, a long time ago at a college dance, and found himself captivated by the most beautiful and intelligent pair of blue eyes he had ever looked into…

Now, though, his anticipation was tempered by sadness. _You cannot fix the problems of the world, Fritz, nor even the problems of your friends_, he reminded himself. It was truly sad, though, he thought with some anger, that the same good fortune that had blessed him could not also bless his friend. If ever a man would try his utmost to be a good husband and father, it was Robert Goren, and it was one of life's small, everyday, tragedies that his background had made him incapable of seeing that fact for himself.

_You've done your best to plant the seed, _he thought unhappily. He could only hope that Robert might take his advice, but in many ways he doubted it.

_One in New York, one in London. The odds that they'll ever meet again…_ He was not a religious man, but he had always believed that there were times in life when the only human response to a situation was to acknowledge that it was beyond your power to remedy, and express your sincere hope to whoever or whatever might be listening and inclined to assist. He bowed his head briefly, and for a brief moment, _hoped_ as hard as he could.

Then he straightened his head, and went upstairs to his wife, regretfully putting the matter out of his head and turning towards his own life, with just one final thought; _Robert, my friend, I hope you'll find what you're seeking, or perhaps it will find you. Either way, good luck._


	2. The Only Road

_London, summer 2005._

_Three weeks later._

A sudden movement on my left, in my peripheral vision and I flick my eyes sideways, but it's nothing to worry about. Two girls, walking down the street. I grin at them, and they grin back. One gives me a _come-hither_ kind of look, which I guess is flattering. I'm in an old pair of jeans and white T-shirt, and in the heat of a sweltering London summer (they happen occasionally), that's two pieces of clothing too many, but I guess I look good in them, all that time in the gym with the rugby team paying off.

I return the grin, but nothing else, and keep walking, thinking to myself _Sorry sweetheart, you're not my type and besides, I'm engaged_. Look down at the ring on my left ring finger, silver with a white stone set into in, a twin of the one on _his_ finger.

He's in our flat now, I can see the light on in the window. I quicken my step, but keep vigilant, looking about for trouble, like he expects me to do. Never ever going to forget to do that.

I still remember, vividly, that one night. About a month after we moved in together. I was staggering tiredly (well, drunkenly; night out with the rest of the local amateur rugby team I play for on a Saturday) home. Wandered into the stairwell, wasn't thinking about anything but a glass of a water, maybe a quick one if he was still awake, then blissful oblivion, wasn't looking around.

Totally forgotten what we agreed: "You and I move in together, you do that course in awareness and self-defence, and you apply it, Mike. Always. You never come home without checking, you never go anywhere without your mobile and some way of defending yourself. You pick what, but you don't ever forget to be careful. Not once, not ever. You can't do that, we can't move in, because I might get you killed".

I still remember him, sliding out of the darkness, familiar steely strength in those thin arms gripping me, holding me still, the shock of one hand grasping my hair, the press of a sharp black blade against my throat, his familiar voice in my ear, dead serious, "Game over, Mike." (The horror of realising that he knew how to do that.)

I didn't speak to him for a week after that. Couldn't forgive him for being right, I guess. Afterwards we carried on as before. Never spoken of it again, but I have never since, ever, come home without being very careful to check for someone lying in wait.

He's worth it. About as infuriating as a cat, stubborn, manipulative, charming, sexy, and utterly fascinating. To me, anyway.

I grin and shake my head. Didn't see this coming.

(Ignore the voice in the back of my head that reminds me that I'm shortly going to be married – civil partnered, technically, but it's marriage by another name – to a man who, by his own admission, is a liar, a manipulator and an occasional killer. Didn't see _that_ coming.)

I head on up, longing to shed my clothes. I'm picking up music from above. I round the corner towards the final flight of stairs and the front door, and pick up the words. It's Green Day; "Macy's Day Parade". (This is a good sign. Radiohead? Not so good.)

He's singing along, light tenor clear in the still air of the stairwell: "And I'm thinking 'bout the only road, the one I've never known, and where it goes…"

I've known for some time now that he must have had some voice training at some point, perhaps when he was young. Most people slur the ends of the words when they sing. He sounds the final consonant clearly. Macy's Day Para-_duh_, lonely road-_duh_. Eventually, I will extract the truth about that. I'm in no hurry.

I unlock the door and let myself in. His tie is thrown over the chair in the hallway. I grin. He hates wearing a tie nearly as much as he hates wearing a suit ("You look good in them", "I don't give a bugger; I hate having my neck in a noose"). I wonder with a happy thrill of anticipation if there's anything else he's taken off.

Go through into the living room, and stop. As I take in the sight, Billie Joe Armstrong reaches the end of the song: "And I'm thinking 'bout a brand-new hope, the one I've never known, cause now I know it's all that I wanted…".

There are papers strewn all over the floor. This is normal. It's his way of thinking, like doing a mindmap, only using the entire floor of the living room to spread the papers out over. (My way is to have everything tidy. We compromise. Badly.) I check carefully to see that my own papers are undisturbed. We're coming to the end of the advance I got for the book I'm working on, but I'm nearly there with the first draft, and I have had to explain forcibly to him that, whilst I may love him, if he ever disturbs so much as one page of one of my book drafts when I'm still in the early stages, I don't care if it's in the interests of national security, I will throttle him with his own damn tie.

I glance down at my feet, seeing photograph. The nearest ones show… hmm. I bend down and pick up the photograph. It shows two people; a tall man with dark hair, and a small blond woman. Both are middle-aged, but _young_ middle aged. Maybe early forties, I think. I spot the fire hydrant in the background, and realise they must be American.

On the coffee table beyond that, I can spot a plane ticket. My heart sinks. Again? _Got to get used to it_, I tell myself.

And beyond that, he's sitting, sprawled untidily in a chair, facing away from me and staring out of the window, gun resting casually on one thigh. As he senses that I've entered the room, he shoves it carelessly back into its holster. I will never get used to _that_. He handles it as calmly and with as little thought as I would handle a pen, whereas I nearly dropped his gun the first time I tried to pick it up.

You see actors with them all the time on TV, and you never quite register that they're using props, fake guns. A real gun is a solid lump of metal, heavy and evil, but for him it is unnatural not to have one strapped under his jacket. Unless he's in bed.

"So, are you off on your travels again?" I ask lightly. If I kick up a fuss every time he has to vanish unexpectedly, this will be the shortest civil partnership on record.

He doesn't turn to face me. I can see from his arm and leg that he's still wearing his grey suit trousers and white shirt, but no socks, as if he started getting undressed and then got distracted.

He sighs heavily. "You know something?"

"I guess I'm about to."

"I used to have the same attitude to lying as I did to sex. I went in, I did what I had to do to get what I wanted, and then I left without ever once looking back."

I don't like that tone of voice at all. He rarely gets black moods, but when he gets thoughtful, the dark cloud can last for days, the flipside of the slightly manic charmer most people see him as. (Well, be honest Mike. They think that at first. Afterwards it's probably more like "slightly manic complete bastard". They're wrong, of course.)

"But then, nearly a year ago, I got a very strange phone call…"

I shiver as I remember. That visit to Jamaica with some old friends of mine from school, to meet some of our relatives, first time I'd been there, Mum and Dad couldn't save the airfare when me and my sisters were younger…

Britain is no paradise if you're black and gay, but Jamaica is worse. In Britain you at least stand a fighting chance of being able to walk down the street and not have your head bashed in…

My own fault. Best of intentions, of course. But still, it was stupid.

I'm good at spotting other gay men, especially the younger ones, the ones who are still scared, still unsure… I work on a helpline for them twice a month, so I didn't think twice before I spoke to that kid in the bar. Seen him around the neighbourhood my aunt's family lives in, heard the rumours…

All I said was, if he wanted someone to talk to, I was there, that Britain was a good place to be.

Forgotten how quickly in poor neighbourhoods, rumours spread and grow until a few friendly words of advice turn into a lewd proposition, then a rape. Forgotten that the kid's brother was a local gangster, big man in the neighbourhood. Forgotten the attitude a lot of people have over there to people like me.

Next night I went out, and they were waiting for me. Big gang, big men with pipes.

Guess I was lucky they didn't have guns, or at least that they didn't want to use guns on me. I can remember the first few blows, but after that it's all a blur.

My friends got me away, I still have no idea how. Still don't remember how, but at night I have dreams of running away, running through endless streets, being dragged through them with a howling noise at my back…

They left me with some local gay activists I'd met earlier – I guess I must have had the address on me, maybe I managed to remember it? I'll never know for sure – then ran. (They're not my friends any more, but I guess I don't blame them for wanting to get as far from me as possible. I do blame them for not telling my family where I was, though.) The mob was still looking for me, wanted to finish what they'd started, or so I'm told; I was passing in and out of consciousness at the time.

Only number I had on me was his. He gave it to me, written on a friend's business card, and I kept it in my wallet, intending to call him as soon as I got back. I was as fascinated with him then as I still am now, but sensed that if I let him have his own way, I'd be just another notch on his bedpost, and something told me that we could have a lot more than that if I played it right…

Well, anyway, the people I'd been left with were stuck with someone too badly injured to move, too dangerous to be caught hiding, and no way of knowing who they should call. His was the only number I had on me; my mobile had been stolen when the mob jumped me.

So they called him, and, incredibly, he came for me.

He continues, "So there I was, sitting in my surveillance van, watching and listening for the drug traffickers we were trying to catch, and suddenly my mobile goes off. I never ignore it, you never know who it is. So I go outside for a few seconds, and by that time, I've missed the call and there's a very strange message waiting for me."

I've never actually heard what they told him, but it doesn't matter. He got my name and the message I was in trouble.

"So I had a decision to make." His voice is still thoughtful. "I mean, from one point of view it was simple. I should have just ignored it. Concentrated on the people I was trying to catch."

His eyes meet mine. You would not think that grey eyes could be warm, but his are. "I'd like to say that I reasoned it all out. That I wrestled long and hard with my conscience, but actually it was a very simple decision. I suddenly realised that I could not imagine a world in which I didn't see you again."

He sighs. "So, I waited six hours until I was sure we'd got what we needed. Then I left the kid I'd had working for me in charge with strict instructions about what to do, drove about 100 miles an hour to get to your place, broke into it to find out where you were, then took myself, my credit card, my gun and the clothes I stood up in, and hopped the next flight to Jamaica."

_And thank God you did_, I think with deep sincerity. I would almost certainly be dead if he hadn't. The moment he half-burst, half-staggered through the door with a small posse behind him to get me out of there, out of the country and into a hospital was one of the best moments of my life.

"I'll never be able to thank you enough for that," I reply.

He smiles softly, an expression I suspect no-one but me has ever seen before. (Well, maybe one person… but I doubt it somehow.) "You already have. You said yes."

I indicate the floor. "What's all this?"

He sighs. "You see that photo there?" He indicates the one I was looking at earlier.

"Yep."

"I worked with the man in it once. Surveillance op… or so he thought, anyway." He shrugs, and suddenly changes the subject.

"Two years ago, I lied to someone I now consider a friend. I did it for the best of reasons." He shakes his head. "I have a very simple outlook on life. I only ask myself, "Does what I'm thinking of doing mean that there's a chance I can protect my country?". And if it does, whether it's lying, betraying, fucking people over, whatever, then I should do it. Simple."

He raises his head to meet my eyes for the first time. I see in those anguished grey eyes the words he isn't saying: _And then I met you, and suddenly it was no longer simple_.

He heaves a heavy sigh, then shakes his head. "What can I do? If I can't think like that any more, I can't do my job."

"Is that why you lied to her?"

"Yup." He grins mirthlessly. "I screwed with her head, I manipulated her, and I omitted to tell her the truth, all for the very best of reasons. If I had deliberately set out to screw both of them over, I probably couldn't have done a better job." He shrugs and pulls a face. "If she finds out… hell, she'll probably even think that what happened at Glastonbury was deliberate, me trying to screw with her head some more." He glances up quickly, looking worried, and adds "It wasn't… honest"

I ignore that last, smiling to show that I really don't care about what happened at Glastonbury between them, it's old news, and move on to the interesting bit of that sentence. _Both of them?_

I think quickly. I have a pretty good idea of which of our acquaintances he's talking about, which means that this man in the photograph must be… yes. I know who he is, though it's the first time I've seen a picture of him, and thus I know who the woman in the photograph is too; his partner. Alex Eames, if I remember the name correctly.

I'm getting a very bad feeling. It doesn't help when I remember what he told me two days ago. "Didn't you say that you were going to be working straight through until the end of the week?" _That I wasn't going to be seeing you?_

He sighs and rubs the back of his neck. "Yup. I'm not working."

"You got suspended from duty _again_?" That's not fair of me; the first time was because he abandoned the operation he was on to come rescue me. I get the impression anyone less valuable, less good at their job, would have got sacked for that.

He grins mirthlessly. "Yup. I started the day with a bad feeling, progressed to having a slanging match with my boss in front of half of London's most senior policemen, got suspended, and I'm about to cap it off by breaking the Official Secrets Act." He grins as if daring me to argue with him, point out how stupid this sounds.

I refuse to play. "Fair enough. I'll be in the kitchen; shout when you've finished committing treason."

"Ah, it doesn't work like that. You have to be in the room at the time."

"I don't want to hear this. No, Drew, I _don't_. Don't tell me."

I turn to leave, but he shouts after me so that I can't avoid hearing: "I'm working on the security team for the England versus Germany football match at the end of the week."

I don't want to know, but he keeps talking to my back. "Right now, my boss, Graham Mulligan, is about to tell the Home Secretary that it's safe for the match to go ahead. I believe he's wrong."

I half-turn. "Hence the slanging match?"

"In which I expressed this opinion at length, and at some volume." He grins for a second, then it fades. "I am about to try the most stupid thing I've ever done in my life; an unauthorised investigation. If I get it wrong, then if I'm very, very lucky, I may just only lose myself plus anyone helping me their jobs. Including the ones in that picture you're holding."

"And if you get it right?"

"The City of London stadium holds 80,000 people. I intend that, if that match goes ahead, they will all walk out of there alive."

_Shit_. "We agreed that you would never tell me anything like this. It puts me in danger."

He smiles, sadly. "Did you see the name on the plane ticket?"

_Oh shit_. I pick it up, knowing before I see it that it will read, "Michael Jones.". It's not for him.

It's for me.

He keeps talking. "If I'm going to do this, I need you to be somewhere no-one can get to you, because my best chance of getting out this in one piece is to be able to concentrate completely, and that means I can't be worrying about you. I've arranged for you to be safe – I have contacts in Holland, they can protect you until this is over. Shouldn't be too long, I hope."

_But I will be worrying about you_.

"Why you?" I ask, and I think he understands what I mean, which is, if I'm being honest, _Why do you care? Why is it _you_ risking your life and our future together on a hunch?_ He's dedicated to his job, but altruism is not a part of his character, and never has been.

He grins wryly. "You know how, when we go round to Jack's, he and I always get into an argument, he goes on about how the world's going to end, climate change, poverty, whatever the wristband of the month is, and I always end by saying I don't care and I'm not going to do anything, because it's not my problem?"

"Yes."

"Well," he shrugs and spreads his hands, "this _is_ my problem."

I glance down at the photo, and make a connection I should have made earlier. "These people… are they going to be helping you with this?"

"Yup."

"And is _she_ going to be helping you with this?"

"Yup."

"When are you going to tell them the truth?"

"I'm not."

I stare at him in exasperation. He shrugs. "Okay, maybe afterwards, but I think not… they're too useful… anyway, I need them to trust me for the duration. My saying 'Hi, by the way, I'm largely responsible for the fact the two of you are on opposite sides of the Atlantic as opposed to being shacked up with two kids and a house with a nice picket fence, sorry about that' won't do much to help."

"If they start talking to each other and figure it out, it won't do much to help either."

"They won't."

His arrogance really is breathtaking sometimes. "These are not stupid people, I assume."

He sighs wearily, and looks, briefly, every one of his thirty-four years old (he's eight years older than me, but looks younger). "No. They're good people, which is nearly the same, a lot of the time. No matter how smart they are, good people always find it difficult to believe that someone they think is on the same side as them would happily screw them over without so much as hesitating for a second."

I think anyone who isn't me would miss the brief flicker of self-loathing in those grey eyes, because it lasts for only a second, and then the charming, persuasive outer face of the man I've fallen for is back in place. "Come on. We need to be going if we're to get you on that flight."

I step forward, suddenly, and grip him tightly, one arm around his waist, the other holding him still, my lips up against his. "One thing we have to do first."

He doesn't pull away, but replies "No time."

"We'll be quick." I shove my lips hard onto his, and he resists for about one second before we sink to the floor, not even bothering to try to make it to the bed, his arms wrapping tight around me, pulling at my clothes, unfastening my jeans, his tongue in my mouth, hungry and desperate…

…and so now I'm sitting here, in the safe house in Holland. I should be working on my book, using the time productively, but I can't. Can't do anything but sit and remember. Sit and run over that night, and hope to God that he's alright, that somehow, someway, he will find a way out of this that doesn't involve death for him or anyone else.

And I hope to God that wasn't the last time.


	3. What Has Gone Before

**Author's Note**: This chapter is intended mainly as a "catch-up" for anyone who hasn't read the Bobby and Sienna series so far. This is basically everything that happened prior to Bulletproof Armour, which I'll be posting in the extremely near future. If you've read this far, you can probably skip the next chapter. The titles in square brackets are the titles of the fics in which the events described occurred. (For reference, "Army Fatigues" was set in the summer of 2002, between Criminal Intent seasons one and two. "Bulletproof Armour" is set in summer 2005, after the end of season four.)

Don't worry if you're not sure who the narrator here is, or who the two individuals in the previous chapter were. All will be revealed in the fullness of time. Onward!

From: anne.price the guardian .co .uk

To: acuriousman refusingtobeacynicalgoon .org

Date: 20th August 2010

Jack

Any thoughts on that book yet? I need to speak to the publisher next week .

Anne.

From: acuriousman refusingtobeacynicalgoon. org

To: anne. price theguardian. co. uk

Date: 26th August 2010

Subject: Summer 2005 – City of London stadium.

Dear Anne

I've considered your proposal to write a book about what happened in summer 2005 long and hard, and – not to beat around the bush any longer – yes, I'll do it. If nothing else, it makes a fascinating story. After all, I was there for most of it, and indeed played a role in it myself instead of being a mere observer… something I intend never to repeat, I might add. The events at the City of London stadium three years ago… well. I don't think I will ever be so scared again in all my life. I sincerely hope not.

You've asked for some background information so that you can begin planning an outline. Background information on what actually happened is sufficiently sensitive, even after five years, that I'd rather not discuss it except in person. Background information on the individuals involved, however, I can provide here, by email.

Our story begins, therefore, in summer 2002, when Detective Bobby Goren of the NYPD's Major Case Squad found himself seconded to a surveillance operation on the east coast, north of New York, along with two CIA agents, a British intelligence officer, Andrew Davenport, and two individuals from Interpol's Eastern European and Russian division; Lieutenant Tim Whitefield and a young translating officer, Sienna Tovitz ('Army Fatigues'). At that time, he was 41 and had been working for the NYPD since leaving his career as an Army Intelligence Officer. She was 26, living in the Ukraine and working for Interpol as a translator whilst dreaming of bigger things. (Half-Russian, half-American, she had traded on her gift for languages so far, but was considering a career move into the planning and strategy aspect of intelligence work.)

Exactly how that operation turned out is also sufficiently sensitive that I can't relate it here. Suffice it to say that it was during that day and night that Bobby Goren and Sienna Tovitz discovered a very strong mutual attraction to each other and… acted on it, let's say. ('Primitive Female', 'Primitive Male').

Not long after that, Lieutenant Tim Whitefield was offered a new post in New York as the head of the newly-created Interpol Foreign Serious and Organised Crime Squad, intended to tackle crime arising from the activities of the Russian and Eastern European mafias in New York. As his protégé, Sienna Tovitz came with him to work as a senior translator within the division, and was instrumental herself in helping to set it up. She and Bobby Goren renewed their acquaintance on her first visit to New York, one month after the surveillance operation where they first met. It was around this time that Sienna first met Bobby Goren's partner, Detective Alex Eames ('I'll Meet You in the Bathroom in Five', 'Silver on Black').

After around four months of travelling between the two countries helping to set up the new division, Sienna Tovitz eventually moved permanently to New York. She and Bobby Goren continued their relationship, to the point that she moved in with him, and all seemed set fair for their future… ('Perfect End to an Awful Day', 'Bobby Goren and the Irresistible Book').

Unfortunately, things did not work out for them, and she eventually left New York altogether, moving to London to work as a Liaison Officer between Interpol and the Metropolitan Police ('Perfect Day').

Undoubtedly, she and Bobby Goren thought they would never see each other again. As it turned out, fate had other plans. This would be the point at which myself and Tanya came into the story, along with you-know-who…

Ah, you'll have to excuse me, I must stop writing. My wife is shouting at me and apparently I'm needed on the beach outside. Speak to you about this when we get back from holiday!

Yours with best wishes,

Jack.

And now we're up to date, and "Bulletproof Armour" will be posted very shortly.


End file.
